


A Stroll on the West Pier

by Belphegor



Category: The Mummy Series
Genre: Brighton in the 1930s, Day At The Beach, First Dates, M/M, Period-Typical Biphobia (Mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 22:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30079281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belphegor/pseuds/Belphegor
Summary: There’s a lot of things to do in Brighton if you’re taking a date, and Jonathan intends to have a good time about town with the fellow he met at the beach the other day. Even if – as caution dictates – it’s just for one day.(a sequel of sorts toBeside the Side of the Silvery Sea.)
Relationships: Jonathan Carnahan/Original Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	A Stroll on the West Pier

**Author's Note:**

> me in February 2020, writing _One-Step, Two-Step, Waltz_ : this is so bloody self-indulgent, oh my god 😳😐  
> me in February 2021, writing this: **HOLD MY BEER**
> 
> ~~Anyway it turns out I like Harry and I want him and Jonathan to be good for each other for a while~~

_July 1933_

Brighton’s West Pier was more crowded than it had any right to be at eleven in the morning.

To be fair, it was a bright, cloudless morning, herald of a day that would undoubtedly be sunny and warm, which was why so many people were already settled on chairs or benches along the rail. They chatted, laughed, drowsed in the sun, and hardly paid any attention to their fellow tourists, including the one currently striding along with a decided spring in his step.

Jonathan Carnahan was indeed feeling quite chipper that morning. He had risen early (for him, anyway), donned his favourite sky-blue tie to complement his barely-rumpled white linen suit, and driven down to Brighton humming Cole Porter songs for the best part of the trip.

For Jonathan had a date.

And not even the sort of date that was bound to go pear-shaped when the other person inevitably found out his ‘manor’ was not exactly his – hadn’t been for a few years, anyway. Or the kind of encounter that ended with a sheepish explanation at best and a slap at worst. No, this was a proper date, an actual rendezvous, with someone who was not only ridiculously attractive but also had seemed as eager to pursue their little conversation as Jonathan had been.

Since his prospective date was a man, however – a genial fellow with green eyes and a warm smile Jonathan would have loved seeing more of if he hadn’t been minding Alex at the time – this was not the sort of date he could brag about to his sister if he was feeling scandalous. Evy had no idea his tastes didn’t stop at women, thank goodness. Much as he enjoyed pushing the limits of her sensibilities, he’d be caught dead before he let something this big and this dangerous slip, to her or anyone else.

Oh, well. There were _some_ things Jonathan was used to keeping close to the vest. No matter what some people said about his inability to keep a secret.

He loped along the sunbathing tourists, careful not to step on any toes, and finally found an empty spot near a lamppost at the very end of the pier. The perfect place to wait if one was in the mood for wool-gathering.

Before him, the English Channel stretched its endless carpet of blue, glittering under the July sun; behind him lay England’s green and pleasant land, which he always preferred to Egypt this time of year, when the dog days of summer rolled by.

And between the two, Brighton. A cheerful little seaside town that somehow managed to accommodate tourists, holidaying families, and – if your eyes were trained to notice that sort of thing – people of a decidedly queerer sort looking for quick trysts or companionship for a day.

Like him. Except for once Jonathan had the near-certainty of not having to spend the day – or perhaps the night, even – alone.

Among the chatter of humans and marauding gulls alike Jonathan caught the sound of uneven footfall, followed by a calm voice.

“Who was that fellow who said ‘ _The best thing I know between France and England is the sea_ ’?1”

Jonathan turned with a smile. Sure enough, Harry was standing there, a bag on his shoulder, the wind ruffling his hair a little. The small smile that had drawn Jonathan to him a few days ago was playing at his lips.

“I don’t think I know that one,” said Jonathan, relaxing against his lamppost. “Who was he, one of ours or one of theirs?”

“Ours, I think, but he could’ve been Belgian for all I know. Literature isn’t my field. I just like to remember witticisms.”

“They do come in handy, don’t they?” He extended his hand; Harry took it and shook it warmly. “Spiffing to see you, old chap.”

“Likewise. You haven’t been waiting here long, have you?”

“A couple of minutes at the most. Spent much longer trying to find an unoccupied spot. It’s always like this whenever the sun decides to come out.”

“Even in the winter?” asked Harry curiously, falling into step with Jonathan. Who gave a long-suffering nod.

“Even then. Little old ladies just spread a blanket on their knees and pretend they’re on the sun deck of a transatlantic.”

Harry grinned outright at this, making Jonathan’s stomach give a familiar funny jolt.

Well. If he had needed confirmation that just walking away after last time would have been a very, very bad idea…

“So,” said Harry as he limped along, and Jonathan instinctively slowed down his pace to match his, “do you still want to see the aquarium?”

Jonathan grinned.

“I do, actually. But you might want to get rid of your bag first. What’s in it, anyway?”

“Beach things and a sponge bag, mostly.” There was a peculiar quality to Harry’s smile, not quite embarrassed, just on the cusp of a flush. “And a change of clothes and my shaving kit. Just in case.”

“Good, good,” said Jonathan as airily as he could whilst his heart leapt in his chest at the thought of what the ‘just in case’ meant. “Then it can keep mine company.”

The look on Harry’s face plainly said he understood what was implied. Then he blinked.

“Where did you leave it, then?”

“At my favourite haunt when I need to spend a night in Brighton. You know, just in case.” They exchanged a grin. Harry’s arm grazed Jonathan’s as they walked, speeding up the beat of his heart. “Ever heard of the Leeward Inn?”

“I don’t think so,” said Harry. “Is that a hotel? The name sounds right out of _Treasure Island_.”

“You’re not far off!”

Harry threw him a curious look.

There was a mile between the pier and the hotel; they took the trolleybus, which was barely less packed than it would have been on a weekend. This resulted in the two of them being crammed in with a number of people, very close together, though not quite touching. One of Harry’s hands still held his bag as the other clutched a hanging strap; Jonathan leant against the window and tried to not let the movements of the trolleybus throw him from one side to another.

Packed public transit was perhaps the worst place to carry on a conversation, especially private, so they didn’t even make an attempt. They both adopted the usual standing passenger attitude: gazing resolutely ahead and pretending not to notice that a bunch of strangers crowded one’s personal space, and vice versa. It was all very _Stiff upper lip, old boy. If you don’t draw attention to it, then I shan’t, either_. Of course, in Jonathan’s case, it also meant that he was entirely unable to _not_ notice the cant of Harry’s shoulders, the dark eyelashes framing his bright eyes, the warm closeness of him, perceptible even when surrounded by other people on a hot day.

The door swinging open brought in a waft of fresh air and a whiff of Harry’s cologne. The trolleybus acquired half a dozen people, which resulted in Harry and Jonathan being pushed together, almost chest to chest. To make matters worse, Jonathan caught Harry’s eyes and _saw_ the jolt of electricity which made him shiver go straight through the other man, as well.

When their stop came, it was no small relief. The trolleybus left them standing on the pavement side by side, just a little red in the face.

“Well,” said Harry.

“Er,” said Jonathan.

They looked at one another and gave the same awkward chuckle.

“All right,” said Harry, sounding more relaxed, “where’s that inn of yours, then?”

“Oh, you won’t be disappointed.”

The Leeward Inn was a little hole-in-the-wall establishment on Somerset Street, entirely unremarkable except for a small decrepit sign which was made of wood and badly-decorated with a pirate’s head, complete with eyepatch and pipe. Harry stared at it for a few seconds before following Jonathan inside.

The foyer was small and dimly-lit, all wood panelling, framed pictures, and coloured hangings. The result was somewhere between an actual ship’s hold and the set for a children’s production of _Treasure Island_. Jonathan walked through the room straight to the old woman behind the counter, who raised her head and smiled when she saw him.

“Oh, it’s you again, Mr George. I hope this doesn’t mean you’re leaving us so soon?”

“Perish the thought,” said Jonathan, grinning. He liked the proprietor. She and her husband were one of a kind. Or, well, two. “No, I was just wondering if my friend here could leave his bag in my room for the day. Would that be all right with you, Mrs Browne?”

“Of course, dearie. And I _told_ you, it’s ‘Doris’ to my young gentlemen. Will you two be splitting expenses, then?”

Jonathan looked back to Harry, who was staring at him and Doris with a startled expression that bordered on fear.

“I don’t know yet. We’ll discuss particulars later, shall we?”

“Yes, yes. Here’s your key, at any rate. You boys have fun. It’s a beautiful day, I hope you enjoy our fair city.”

“We’ll endeavour to do just that,” said Jonathan with a roguish wink that made her laugh. He collected Harry, who was still standing frozen in the middle of the little foyer, and made for the stairs.

“Was she…” spluttered Harry. “Did you just…?”

Some contextualisation was in order.

“Don’t worry,” said Jonathan, “Doris both knows everything and refuses to hear anything. She and her husband both had their share of forbidden flings when they were younger; this hotel is a sort of, well, safe haven. Hence the name, by the way. And the fact that pseudonyms are practically required of patrons.”

“Don’t the police ever raid this place?” Harry asked, voice still tight with worry. Jonathan shook his head.

“I’m not… quite sure they even know it exists. As for everyone else, well – _if_ they notice there’s a hotel there they walk past the front thinking ‘Mangy little place, probably has fleas and rats too’ and never stop. Which it doesn’t, by the way,” he added with a tip of his hat to two girls going down the stairs hand in hand, wearing floral-print summer dresses and wide smiles that turned into giggles as one kissed the other’s neck. Harry stared after them for a second.

“Oh,” he said faintly, “good. That’s… that’s good.” He ventured a steadier smile. “So you were serious when you said I could leave my bag with yours. I mean… That’d be safe.”

His hand brushed against Jonathan’s and lingered for a few seconds. Jonathan swallowed.

“Safe as houses.”

“All right.”

They didn’t talk again until Jonathan took out his key to open the door to his room. Harry was gazing around at the décor of the corridor, taking in the small windows, the old-fashioned wallpaper, the occasional pirate paraphernalia scattered here and there. The room itself was small but clean and serviceable, with a tiny en suite bathroom and even a lavatory; Jonathan had been pleasantly surprised by how cosy the hotel was the first time he had set foot there.

Jonathan locked the door behind them after hanging a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. This was always potentially an awkward moment, a sort of ‘Now what?’ when one had to be very careful to avoid misunderstandings. Since making Harry’s acquaintance had almost been prevented by one such misunderstanding in the first place, the last thing Jonathan wanted was to make a faux pas.

Fortunately, Harry was a pretty straightforward fellow, even more so behind the safety of a locked door. He dropped his bag on the floor, walked up to Jonathan, and breathed, “I’ve been dying to do this” before pressing his lips to his.

Jonathan made a relieved noise and melted into the kiss.

Harry’s mouth was soft and warm and tasted of pipe tobacco and a hint of coffee. For a second Jonathan’s hands dangled from his arms uselessly; from there the most natural thing in the world was to put them on Harry’s sides to draw him even closer, to feel his torso and his strong back. Harry had the same idea, and soon they were both gripping each other, kissing as though their lives depended on it.

When they broke apart to catch their breath, still wrapped around one another, Harry grinned half an inch from Jonathan’s lips.

“Just to be clear,” he said, his breath catching, “I still want to see the aquarium with you.”

Jonathan chuckled.

“Right-o. But later.”

“Later,” Harry agreed, and this time it was Jonathan who kissed him.

This kiss was just as passionate as the first, but slower, deliberate, exploratory. Their lips strayed off the beaten path to find jawlines, cheeks, necks, before crashing back together. They invaded each other’s mouth with a sort of relieved hunger, a sense of _finally_ , and when they stopped kissing Jonathan realised he had his back to the wall and a warm, very aroused body in his arms. He himself was half-hard already and aching for more.

Dear God he had missed this.

It had been long enough since the last time that Jonathan had a niggling worry they – or he, at the very least – might be headed for a hasty finish, right there against the wall. That would be a crying shame with a comfortable bed waiting for them just a few feet away. But the sensation of Harry pressed against him was so good that he couldn’t help seizing him just below the buttocks and tugging him closer to grind against him.

Harry froze and let out a pained hiss. Jonathan immediately let go.

“Sorry – bad leg?”

“Bad leg,” said Harry breathlessly, before adding with a chuckle, “but not bad arse. I like your hands where they were. The problem is _here_.”

He gingerly ran his hand over the front of his right thigh.

Jonathan kissed him again, gulped, and said, “Much as I’d love to continue in the same vein, I think… I think we could stand to lose some unnecessary layers first.”

Harry grinned and nodded, and they reluctantly put a couple of inches between them to do just that.

Ties were loosened and thrown to the floor, belts swiftly unbuckled, but when it came to jackets and waistcoats they took the time to fold them over the backs of the two wooden chairs in the corner. Same with trousers. Flannel and linen rumpled a little too easily.

There was another lull when they took off their shoes and socks. Always a slightly awkward step. Especially since Jonathan almost missed the bed when he made to sit down, occupied as he was undoing the last buttons of Harry’s shirt. The startled squawk he gave made Harry laugh, which made him laugh in turn somewhat sheepishly, because God, why did these encounters always turn him back into a fumbling sixteen-year-old boy?

At long last, the last barrier between them fell along with their pants. And there it was, that flash of bashfulness that never failed to rear its head even as _want_ thrummed through him. Jonathan could boast of a certain amount of experience before getting shipped off to the battles of France around his twenty-first birthday; peeling off his clothes with someone else before pleasant naked activities hadn’t been daunting in the least then. The War, then Hamunaptra a few years later, had changed that somewhat. Both events had marked him in ways he was still processing even now, mainly by refusing to process them at all; the traces they had left on his body were faint compared to others’, but they were there, and they could be hard to overlook.

It was fortunate in a sense that the mark the War had left on Harry was so obvious. They both _knew_ , which meant they both could merrily ignore what might have been cause for awkward glances and gestures from someone who didn’t.

Harry’s gaze on him was frank and open, his hands firm on Jonathan’s waist as they sat on the edge of the bed to better explore each other. Jonathan ran his hand on his broad chest, his softer belly, into the thatch of thick dark hair at his crotch. He was so hard his prick jutted against his stomach, leaking just a little bit at the tip.

Because he wanted to be touched, wanted Jonathan, just as badly as Jonathan wanted him. And right there, right now, they _could_ have each other.

The delighted awe that rushed through Jonathan at the realisation was an old friend. Good God, that feeling would never get old.

Jonathan ran his hand up Harry’s left thigh, rubbing the little hairs the wrong way, and laughed.

“I don’t know what possessed you to come and chat with me the other day,” he replied to Harry’s quizzical look, “but I am bloody glad you did.”

Harry grinned. His hands, large and strong, circled Jonathan’s hips to rest on his buttocks. His grip there was loose and warm and hinted it could be a lot sturdier than that. Jonathan immediately decided he liked those hands a lot.

“Spur of the moment, mostly. I was feeling reckless and I thought I’d try my luck. Never did something just because you wanted to?”

_Oh, if you only knew._

Jonathan’s fingers closed on Harry’s prick and squeezed lightly, making him give a hiss and a strangled laugh. It felt both firm and fragile, pulsing with life, and it fitted perfectly in his hand.

“All the time,” he said with a crooked grin. “But the outcome usually isn’t nearly as good.”

Harry kissed him then, slow and deep, and pulled him down onto the mattress with him.

The rhythm started slow, steady and powerful. They let hands and mouths explore, getting acquainted with each other and finding out what to touch and what to leave alone. Harry accidentally found the sweet spot at the juncture of Jonathan’s neck and shoulders that always made his toes curl, but his fingers only grazed the white crescent-shaped scar just under his collarbone. Jonathan discovered a similar weakness just above Harry’s navel and delighted in licking and puffing on it, but avoided the jagged and clearly still painful scar running down his right thigh.

The urgency of their first kiss hadn’t gone far, however. Soon hands and lips and tongues were not enough and they needed no less than their whole bodies to properly feel each other, taste each other. They started grinding full length against one another, panting in each other’s mouth, Jonathan propping himself up on an elbow whilst his thighs encircled Harry’s hips; his other hand carded through Harry’s hair, which he’d been dying to do for a while now, clutching and pulling as though at a lifeline. Harry’s arms were tight around him, one around his back and the other one grasping his buttocks, more and more forcefully with every ragged breath. Every movement made their pricks rub together, setting Jonathan’s nerves on fire, making his head swim, making him tremble, and _oh God this was glorious_ –

Harry came with a loud groan he tried to muffle into Jonathan’s mouth, without much success. The next second, pleasure burst through Jonathan in short, sharp spikes, and he collapsed onto Harry with a long sigh.

They lay still, breathing hard, shivering from time to time, both their softening pricks and the mess they’d made trapped between their stomachs. Jonathan was still huddled against Harry’s chest with a hand in his hair, and Harry’s arms were still around Jonathan, their grip only a little looser. One of his hands rested on Jonathan’s spine and stroked its way up and down, slowly, lazily.

And oh, no matter how delicious a climax in good company was, the part that came right after, should one have the luxury to bask in it a little, was truly nothing to sneer at.

“Do you think we were too loud?” asked Harry after a few seconds. Or possibly ten minutes. Jonathan’s brain was still not firing on enough cylinders to tell the difference.

Jonathan made to shake his head and changed his mind, pressing a kiss into the hollow of Harry’s collarbone instead. Harry reacted with a smile and his hand didn’t stop caressing, which was a relief. The immediate aftermath of a good finish tended to make Jonathan sappy. Not everybody was in the mood for sappy then, especially if expediency was required.

“I doubt it,” he breathed after a few lungfuls of air to steady his voice. “It takes a lot more than that to go through the insulation here. The only time I heard something was when my then next-door neighbour was having such a good time he was downright screaming. Good tenor on the fellow, too.”

Harry chuckled.

“Did you get jealous?”

“Annoyed. I was on my own at the time and disinclined to do anything but sleep. Which was only reasonable at four o’clock in the morning, I thought.”

Harry smiled at that, a fond, amused smile that looked even better on him in the present circumstances. Jonathan had thought the chap good-looking before; right now, with the golden warmth of post-coital bliss running sluggishly through their veins, he looked positively devastating.

“I thought this hotel was a place you came to be with someone.”

“It is,” said Jonathan, raising his head from Harry’s chest a little to look him in the eye, “but you’ll also find people like me who appreciate its other fine qualities.”

“Like what?”

“The décor, for one.”

Harry raised his eyebrows as he eyed him. “Bit tacky, though, isn’t it?”

“…It’s _quaint!_ ”

Laughter rose in both their throats. It grew into open giggles when their eyes fell on the framed picture of a pirate ship on the wall opposite then met again.

All right, so he’d missed this, too. Laughing in someone’s arms after a great shag truly was something else. One of those rarities that made life worth living.

“Seriously,” said Jonathan when their laughter had subsided into chuckles, “I like it. And the proprietors are good eggs.”

“Doris does look nice.”

“She is. An absolute peach.”

Harry smiled again and pulled Jonathan’s head to his for a kiss, quick and warm, almost chaste.

“And she did say we should enjoy the town.”

“She did.” They were safe from prying eyes and Harry’s lips were too close and too enticing to be left alone, so Jonathan took the opportunity to kiss him too, on impulse. “So – how about that aquarium?”

Harry opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a low growl from his stomach that made him go pink.

“How about lunch first,” he said whilst Jonathan laughed silently, “and then the aquarium?”

* * *

The first thing they ended up doing was neither lunch nor the aquarium, but getting up (somewhat reluctantly) and washing up (gratefully). Only when they were both decent again – or at least, as Jonathan remarked, clean and fully dressed – did they go out of the room and down the stairs, saluting Doris on the way.

She gave them a sweet smile and said, “What did I tell you earlier, Mr George? The seaside will put some much-needed colour in your cheeks. You and your gentleman friend are looking much healthier already.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. Jonathan adjusted his tie and tried to look a little less healthy.

“Thank you,” he said, proud to not sound as squeaky as his throat threatened. “Do you know if the Admiral Arms is still open on Sillwood Street?”

“Last I checked it was. Oh, and if you’re planning on dining out you’d better keep your room key on you. The night girl will let you in.”

“You think of everything, old girl.”

“I try, dearie, I try. You and your friend have a good afternoon now.”

Jonathan thanked her and bid her goodbye with his hat; so did Harry, two seconds later.

Outside, the sun was shining in a sky so blue it looked like a porcelain bowl. The perfect day to enjoy traipsing about and playing tourists. Whilst keeping the actual walking to a reasonable amount, of course, in deference to Harry’s bad leg.

“She knew what she was implying, didn’t she?” asked Harry, just a little uncertainly. “Doris. She had to – I mean, she practically said out loud that—”

“She definitely did, but she’ll never say it outright,” said Jonathan. “At least I’ve never heard her make more than innuendos. Shall we?”

“We shall,” said Harry cheerfully, and off they went, Jonathan privately regretting for a second the carefree days of his youth when a man could walk arm in arm with a friend (or a lover – who was to know). Not so now. People talked too easily.

They had a good lunch topped off – to continue with the theme of the hotel – with a dram of rum each as a _digestif_ , which the waiter deposited on the table with a solemn, “Here you are, gentlemen: a drop of Nelson’s blood. Straight from the Grenadines.”

Jonathan stared at his tiny glass. Due to exceptional circumstances with a touch of the Biblical, he’d actually had a glassful of whisky turn to blood during the short journey from his hand to his mouth. It had taken a couple of bottles before he could wash off the taste completely afterwards.

“Why on Earth did he call it that?” he muttered, turning the glass in his hand to watch the amber liquid sway.

Harry grinned.

“Well, the restaurant _is_ called the Admiral Arms. You don’t know what ‘tapping the admiral’ means, do you?”

Jonathan’s stare went from his glass to his companion across the table, unblinking.

“I can think of no definition that would be fit for public conversation,” he finally uttered, making Harry snort and shake his head. “All right, what does it mean?”

“Well, you know that Admiral Nelson was killed at the Battle of Trafalgar.”

“I do,” said Jonathan, who despite gaping holes in his knowledge liked history – mostly ancient history, but history all the same – enough that he’d tried to make it his career once.

“Imagine the authorities at the time. The First Admiral of the Fleet, who defeated Bonaparte, dies in battle. He’s going to have to be given a massive funeral, right? But for that his body has to be at least somewhat presentable.”

Harry’s eyes were shining with mirth and something like passion that reminded Jonathan a little of Evy when she got into her Egyptologist mode. She was particularly fond of anything ghastly involving natron, red-hot pokers, and other such delights.

“Now Trafalgar is a cape off the southern coast of Spain, almost in Africa. It’s hot, and it’s far – days and days of sailing before they make it to the English Channel. So what do they do?”

Jonathan’s gaze fell on his glass, then jumped back to Harry, whose entire face was now alight with glee.

“Correct. They stuffed his corpse into a cask of brandy. And camphor and myrrh, but that’s beside the point. The stories usually forget to mention that detail anyway and put rum in the place of brandy.”

“Stories?” said Jonathan, eyebrows raised, putting an elbow on the table and his chin into his palm.

“Well, yes. You see, legend has it that when the _Victory_ made port in England, the cask was empty. Of rum, that is, Nelson’s body was still there and decently pickled. But some sailors who were a little too fond of grog had been tapping into the cask on the sly, and they drank until the rum ran out, hence—”

“‘Tapping the admiral’. Oh, good Lord.”

Jonathan’s snigger was so loud several heads turned to them. He waited until people no longer looked their way before raising his head from his hand and grinning at Harry.

“That has to be one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever heard. I think it even tops the process of mummification. How do you even know this?”

“It’s my job,” said Harry with something like pride, sipping a little at his rum. “I teach history. How do you know about something like mummification? That’s oddly specific.”

“Pedigree, mostly. And I used to fancy myself an Egyptologist. I’m a bit rusty these days, though.”

Harry looked at him expectantly, waiting for an explanation that never came, then smiled and changed the subject. Jonathan likewise didn’t press him further on his job. It was better to let him know he could elaborate if he wanted, but also was free not to do so.

They had their ‘drop of Nelson’s blood’ along with a companionable back-and-forth, and, since the tablecloth almost reached the floor, gently nudged each other’s ankles under the table.

The few – too few – dalliances Jonathan had had so far that came into being just because, for no other reason than a mutual attraction and the impulsive decision to act on it, usually got carnal early on. It was a good way to distinguish who was only after a quick embrace and who wouldn’t be adverse to seeing a bit more of each other in more social conditions. Not to mention sorting people Jonathan just didn’t click with, in bed or elsewhere, from people he wanted to continue having fun with, in bed or elsewhere.

With the sex part out of the way (and said part having been more gratifying than anything in recent memory, or at least the last two or three years), Jonathan was delighted to find that he enjoyed spending time with Harry outside of a romp in the sheets. And looked forward to more of both.

Later, whilst they made a thorough tour of the aquarium, squinting at morays and laughing at the sea lions’ antics, Jonathan reflected that very, very few of his previous dates had ever gone so well.

Later still, when all the walking and sauntering around Brighton had made Harry look a little grey in the face and they claimed a bench on the West Pier to rest before dinner, the thought sneaked back into Jonathan’s head for a minute. He did not let it stay long, too busy he was enjoying the cool breeze in his hair, the last of the day’s heat on his face, and the feel of Harry’s hand as they let their fingers touch on his thigh under the shelter of his hat.

“I definitely missed the last train back,” said Harry at some point, his eyes on the point between city, sea and sky where the sun would be sinking in an hour or two. Jonathan nodded.

“And I’m not too fond of driving at night.” Their eyes met, a sideways glance, a slight smile. “I’m glad I thought to pack a bag.”

“Me too.”

“How about a pint after dinner?”

“Gladly, if you let me pick the pub. I know just the place.”

Jonathan nodded, intrigued.

He was not disappointed. The White Hart was a traditional pub with a few furnishings that suggested a seafaring history, though much less over-the-top than their pirate-themed current digs. It had a snooker table and a dartboard, both already claimed by patrons who looked like regulars, but also a pleasantly quiet atmosphere. Harry lit his pipe, Jonathan nursed his pint, and they stayed in comfortable silence more than they talked.

The walk back to the Leeward Inn was slower than Jonathan was used to, owing to Harry’s limp becoming a little more pronounced than it had been during most of the day. For the last ten minutes, since the lines of what was acceptable blurred in the dim light of lampposts, he agreed to taking Jonathan’s arm. His body was warm against Jonathan’s even as both men tried not to give in to the call of intimacy and lean fully into each other. Perhaps they needn’t have bothered. The only other people who walked past them were either slightly soused nightbirds or the odd same-sex couple struggling with the same dilemma.

Still, when they were finally safely behind the locked door of Jonathan’s room, they both heaved a sigh of relief, although Harry’s was physical on top of the rest. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes with a smile.

“I had a _really_ good day.”

“Same here,” said Jonathan in a similar tone, taking off his tie and undoing a couple of buttons at the top of his shirt. Then he came to sit on the bed as well, close enough to Harry that their thighs touched. “Do you really have to go back home tomorrow?”

“I really do. Not all of us can afford to dine out every day and sleep in hotels every night. Even in very nice quaint hotels and very nice company.”

Harry’s hand rested on Jonathan’s thigh, heavy and warm. Jonathan lowered his head to kiss him just under his jawline, making his smile widen.

“Although,” he said, opening his eyes halfway to look at Jonathan, “my train is not until two o’clock tomorrow and I wouldn’t be adverse to making today last just a little bit longer.”

“Oh thank God,” said Jonathan, before taking his mouth in a slow, heated kiss, breathing heavily through his nose. The taste of Harry’s pipe tobacco mingled with a remnant of beer on his tongue; cigarette smoke from the pub still hung on him, blending with the scent of his skin. It was just as intoxicating as the intimate scent of them as Jonathan had lain on his chest, Harry’s chest hair tickling his cheek. Maybe even more so, in a way.

When they broke the kiss, their hands already on each other’s buttons, Harry breathed, “I hope you’re not expecting acrobatics, though. I’m a bit too old and too knackered for that.”

Jonathan gave a short laugh. “We spent the day yomping across Brighton, I’m in no fit state to ride you senseless or roger you into oblivion. What do you think I am, anyway, twenty years old?”

Harry dissolved into helpless laughter, so infectious Jonathan couldn’t help but laugh along with him. When they finally regained their composure, Harry slipped a hand under Jonathan’s shirt and said in a low voice that still threatened to tip back into giggles:

“Right. But another time?”

“Rather,” said Jonathan, and he put his arms around his waist and kissed him soundly.

Like the first time, they took a few necessary seconds to lay out their clothes so they wouldn’t get wrinkled; Jonathan also took the precaution of grabbing a couple of clean handkerchiefs from his bag.

Unlike the first time, their movements were slow, but surer, made confident by previous experience. There was something deeply intimate in caressing each other under the covers, giving and taking kisses whilst their hands explored and kneaded, the clean exhaustion of a good day making their gestures sluggish and tender.

There were indeed things Jonathan was looking forward to doing with Harry: tasting him all over, burying himself into him, or wrapping his legs around his hips as Harry moved deep inside him. For the moment, he was content with lying in his arms, thrusting in his hand whilst Harry thrust in his, the two of them snatching kisses from time to time to remind one another that they could, and how good it felt.

They weren’t very loud. A few moans at the most. Not out of fear to be heard by the wrong people, nor out of respect for their neighbours’ sleep, only from an unwillingness to break the comfortable silence wrapped around them along with the bedsheets.

The moans started to turn into whimpers as pleasure climbed and spiked. Jonathan had to let go for a second to reach for a handkerchief just before a twist of Harry’s wrist tipped him over the edge. Whilst he fell, Harry’s hand still warm and firm around his prick, he distinctly felt Harry’s body shiver, the kind of small irregular tremors that signalled the onset of a climax; Jonathan kissed him breathlessly and tightened his hand around him as he pulsed and spilled into the already soiled handkerchief.

Neither of them let go of the other for a long time. Gradually, their breathing evened, their heartbeats slowed, their pricks softened in one another’s hand.

Sometimes it just felt good to take one’s time to float back down to Earth in company.

At some point Harry gently kissed Jonathan, his eyes still closed. Jonathan wrapped up a clean handkerchief around the used one, stuffed them both under his pillow to be dealt with later, and put his arms around Harry.

Who let out a short, breathless chuckle.

“I brought pyjamas.”

“Me too,” mumbled Jonathan.

“Don’t think I want to put them on right now, though.”

“Me neither.”

They shifted until Harry’s head was tucked into the hollow of Jonathan’s good shoulder, his body wrapped around his, his prick soft and warm against his thigh.

Jonathan’s hand closed around Harry’s where it lay on his chest, and he stroked his shoulder slowly. Between the climax and the exhaustion, he felt warm, mellow, affectionate, not unlike the peculiar state between sappy drunk and asleep. Thank goodness Harry didn’t seem to mind.

“Haven’t slept with someone in ages,” murmured Harry. “You know – actually slept. ‘S nice.”

“Hm-hm. The whole night and nobody to disturb us. Last time I slept in a fellow’s bed I had to leg it through the window half-naked at five in the morning.”

He felt Harry frown against his chest.

“Police turn up?”

“Worse. His wife.”

Harry’s body curled into a laugh for a second. This was well worth a little lie. Francis and his irate missus were actually the second to last time Jonathan had been looking to spend the night in a lover’s bed. The _real_ last time had been Kate, whose husband had unexpectedly come back early from a business trip. Jonathan had lost his favourite pair of socks, gained a black eye, and sworn off married people altogether. Too much potential for complications.

But most chaps he slept with sneered at him when he mentioned having been with women. Once they knew, they seemed to think his interest in men was at best an anomaly and at worst an insult to ‘real’ inverts, who had no choice but live a life of danger if they wanted intimacy, whilst he ‘dabbled’ instead of only going after women like other ‘normal’ men did.

As a self-confessed dilettante, Jonathan dabbled in a great many things. Whom he found himself attracted to was not one of them. But trying to convince men already condemned to a life of secrecy that he didn’t have much of a choice, either, was fruitless, so he’d rather given up by now.

Perhaps Harry was of the same mind, perhaps not. Much as Jonathan was used to bollocking things up – self-sabotage being one of the nasty habits he had picked up after the War – he’d be damned before he spoiled such a good day with a passing remark.

“We should go for a swim tomorrow morning. Early, before the crowds.”

Harry’s voice was barely louder than a whisper. Or possibly Jonathan was half-asleep already.

“All right,” he murmured. “It’s a date.”

And fell asleep to Harry’s breathing tickling his chest and the warm weight of him in his arms.

* * *

The first thing Jonathan noticed when his brain emerged from very pleasant dreams was that it was so early his entire being rebelled at the very concept. The second was that he was alone in a bed that smelled like two people had slept in it. And also got some actual sleep in it.

Before he had time to even decide on a reaction, he heard the toilet flush and the tap run, then felt the mattress dip behind him as Harry joined him again.

“Jonathan.”

“Mhm.”

“Jonathan, come on, get up. We said we’d go for a swim.”

Jonathan shoved his face into his pillow and screwed his eyes shut for good measure.

“What time is it?”

“Quarter to eight.”

“ _Quarter to_ —it’s bloody dawn! What sort of time do you call this?”

“If this were a working day I’d call it a lie in,” said Harry, sounding entirely too chipper for what Jonathan considered bloody awful o’clock in the morning. “And I’ll have you know the sun rose over two hours ago. Come on, we’ll have the entire beach to ourselves.”

Jonathan reluctantly exhumed his head from his pillow and tried to glare at Harry from puffy eyes.

“That’s because no-one in their right mind will swim in the English Channel at eight in the bloody morning. It’ll be beastly cold.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be fun. And we can always have tea to warm ourselves up afterwards. Didn’t you say you packed swimming trunks?”

“I did,” grumbled Jonathan, “when I thought we might bask in the sun for a bit if it was hot enough. You know, like normal people do.”

But he rose all the same, and even kept the whinging to a minimum, because the sight of Harry standing nude and gloriously unashamed near his bed did wonders to lift a chap’s spirits.

They ended up skipping the shower and donning their clothes from the day before over their swimming trunks. The five minutes’ walk to the beach was enough to clear the last traces of sleep from Jonathan’s mind. The city, whilst not exactly asleep, was nowhere near as bustling as it would be a couple of hours later. Trolleybuses and tramways drove along, locals hurried on their way to work, but the tourists that had made up the bulk of the crowd were absent. When they reached the edge of the water, Harry turned out to be right: the beach was completely empty.

 _Because sane people know better than to try swimming when the air is even colder than the water is_ , Jonathan thought with a last attempt at being grumpy. The sea must be barely above sixty degrees. Since it was also pretty much the same temperature everywhere, however, it wasn’t as shockingly cold as he’d feared.

Besides, Harry wading into the waves with a shout of laughter made up for it, really. Jonathan smiled and grudgingly let himself be pulled into the water.

He would have got a lot colder a lot quicker in a lake, he knew. Between the small waves, rising and crashing and keeping him on his toes, and Harry grinning widely as they splashed around and tried to plunge each other under the surface, things remained energetic enough that Jonathan’s teeth only started chattering after at least twenty minutes.

By the time they wrapped themselves in their towels, lips blue and every single muscle clenched from the cold, a few walkers making their way to the Palace Pier raised their eyebrows at them. Jonathan ignored them, too busy vigorously scrubbing himself dry – and warm. Harry gave every one a polite nod. He would have looked quite dignified if he had been wearing his shirt and his hair didn’t keep flopping into his eyes. Such as he was, he looked ravishing, all shining eyes and reddening cheeks, raised nipples on display. Despite the cold that made Jonathan feel like his entire person was shrinking onto itself, desire flickered into life in his lower belly.

If he kissed Harry right now, he would taste the sea on him.

(If he kissed Harry right now, they would both get arrested.)

“Well,” he said a little later as they walked briskly back to the Leeward Inn, towels in hand, clothed again but still shivering a little, “that was bracing.”

“It was, rather,” said Harry with a grin. “Wasn’t it worth getting up a little early?”

Jonathan threw him a look. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, I still think that’s a barbaric hour to drag almost decent people out of bed. But I admit, it was… nice.” He paused, and added, “You’re still looking a tad bluer than you should, though.”

He didn’t mention the way Harry’s right thigh also appeared stiffer than his left, or that the fingers of his own left hand twitched a little the way they did when he got cold or tired. Or the way his left shoulder currently felt like crumpled-up foil. He knew that Harry was well aware of the former and was fairly sure the latter hadn’t escaped his notice, either.

Harry nodded.

“We both do, at that. Perhaps we shouldn’t have stayed in the water that long. That’s my fault. For this I’ll make the tea my treat. After a hot shower, that is.”

“Perhaps,” said Jonathan. “But I was thinking… well. There are other ways to get warm, aren’t there?”

He gave Harry his most innocent smile, the one that immediately tipped off Evy that he was up to no good. Seeing Harry’s cheeks go from slightly pink to red was gratifying.

“There are indeed. I don’t suppose you have something in particular in mind?”

“Well,” said Jonathan, whose eyes were drawn to the wet strands of Harry’s hair, whose mind was drawn to the rest of Harry, and who was doing his best to appear otherwise, “I’m the sort of chap who likes to improvise. Why don’t we just… start something and see where that leads us?”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing, in a more general sense?” asked Harry, a tad thoughtful.

Jonathan pondered the point. Then conceded it with a smile.

When they passed the counter in the foyer of the Leeward Inn, Doris’ husband Oscar had taken her place. He was as placid as she was sweet, as tall and thin as she was small and stout, and just as selectively oblivious to any illegal goings-on happening in his hotel. He greeted Jonathan and Harry with a nod and took his cigar out of his mouth to say, “That’ll be Mr George from number 6, right? If you’re checking out today I’ll need the key back before noon. You gents go for a swim, then?”

“Yes,” said Harry, still just a little tense. “It was refreshing.”

“Like the waters of the Arctic,” Jonathan quipped. By now the chill was mostly gone, although his hair was still wet, and the only remnant of their dip into the Channel was a slight tautness to his skin from the salt.

Oscar gave a slow smile.

“That’ll wake you up, all right. If you want some tea you can come down to the kitchen, our Doris’ll put the kettle on. One night, one cuppa. ‘S included.”

“Thanks, Oscar,” said Jonathan, “we might take you up on that.”

Oscar’s lips closed on his cigar again and he gave a small wave in response.

Harry followed Jonathan up the stairs again, looking wrong-footed about the lack of cheeky comment.

“Oh, Oscar doesn’t go for that sort of thing. He knows Doris can get away with a lot worse than he can.”

“Indeed,” said Harry, still a little bemused. “And you’re saying they both—? I mean, the two of them are… like us? And they still got married?”

Jonathan tensed a teensy bit.

“They did, yes.”

“But if he likes men, and she likes women, then how…”

A dimly-lit corridor with an amateur painting of a treasure chest on one side and crossed cutlasses inside a frame on the other was about the worst place to have _this_ conversation, so Jonathan let Harry trail off. He waited until they were both inside his room, with the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hung on the door handle, to take a deep breath and say in a would-be offhand tone, “Well, some people like both.”

Harry stilled and looked at him curiously, his towel in hand.

“…Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

“Quite.”

Well, that was it. The moment most of his male dance partners had, more or less politely, told him to bugger off, and not in the fun way. Only decades of necessary secrecy and experience with poker kept Jonathan from tensing from head to toe. As it was, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t lost some colour in his cheeks.

At least it’d been good for almost twenty-four hours…

“Look, I understand if you’d—” began Jonathan, just as Harry tilted his head to the side and said:

“So how does that—oh, sorry. You first.”

Jonathan gave a weak grin, not at all his usual ironic smirk. He tossed his towel, half balled up, across the back of a nearby chair, and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Well I’d prefer to know right now if you’d rather. Er.”

 _Smooth, Carnahan. Really smooth_.

“That is, I’d like to know if it. Well. Bothers you. Right away, preferably.”

Harry blinked. Jonathan plodded on with only grim determination for fuel.

“So, um. I guess I’d understand if you’d rather call it quits. You know.”

“Why would I do that?” Harry asked slowly. Jonathan resisted the urge to look up at the ceiling. A very nice ceiling, to be sure, but a poor substitute for the frank eye contact this conversation required. And not the kind he was capable of to gain the attention of the sort of mark who put stock in a direct, honest handshake, either.

God, he hated frank eye contact when _he_ was the one who felt like a mark.

“In my experience, chaps who are… let’s say, exclusively fond of other chaps, tend to, er, not appreciate chaps like me who have slightly more… wide-ranging tastes.”

“Oh. And they really – I mean, you’ve had people actually ending things? Over _this?_ ”

“It’s not unheard of,” said Jonathan with half a shrug. A whole shrug was apparently too much to ask for.

Harry nodded thoughtfully.

“Well, you learn something new every day.”

Hope crept up behind Jonathan. He metaphorically swatted it aside.

“So you don’t… mind?”

“Even if I did, it’d be none of my business, now would it? To be honest I had no idea it was even possible to like both – _really_ like, not just pretend to like women for propriety’s sake. But,” he added, taking a step towards Jonathan, “you’re here, I’m here, that’s what matters, right? I’m going to assume that if you wanted to be elsewhere right now, you would be.”

“You assume correctly,” said Jonathan. The awkwardness was fading, making room for ear-burning embarrassment at getting caught being so Dramatic. “I don’t introduce just anyone to Doris and Oscar, I’ll have you know.”

“Good. Because despite appearances I don’t let just anyone bugger me senseless or ride me into oblivion.”

Jonathan, despite having uttered roughly the same words the night before and being no blushing maid in the first place, couldn’t help but go a little pink in the face even as he gave a snort of laughter.

“And if one wanted to count in that lucky number, how would he go about it?”

“Well,” said Harry, his eyes twinkling with the sort of oddly straightforward innuendo Jonathan was starting to think was particular to him, “you could start by asking.”

“Right.”

And because he could, because they still had some time left before going their separate ways, and also because he really, really wanted to –

– and sometimes that was all the incentive he needed to do things, really –

Jonathan lightly put his hands on either side of Harry’s head and kissed him.

Then kissed him again, deeper this time. Harry did indeed taste of the sea a little; both the scent and the taste were intoxicating. His hair was still damp, just starting to tangle as it dried. Jonathan delighted in running his hands through it.

They stayed like this, pressed together and snogging like a pair of excited teenagers, until Harry made a soft sound against Jonathan’s mouth and his lips ceased to be enough.

“Right,” said Jonathan again when they broke apart, rather breathless, “so do you really want me to—?”

“Both. I mean, either. Everything. I don’t care.” Harry’s mouth went to Jonathan’s throat, his hands to his lower back, and _want_ abruptly turned into _need_. “I just want you.”

Both the words and the tone of his voice sent something powerful through Jonathan, almost like a blow. It was so rare to be wanted like this, needed like this, to find someone who – goodness knew why – desired him just as much as he did them.

Especially considering what Jonathan had just admitted to. Not that he saw liking women as more shameful than liking men, and vice versa – he’d long made his peace with liking both – but having it out in the open simplified things. Which was good. ‘Simple’ wasn’t necessarily Jonathan’s usual fare in terms of relationships.

They fumbled with buttons and belts, shucked off shoes and wristwatches, kissing and caressing all the way to the bed. It was still unmade, the covers rolled into a ball at the foot of the mattress. They crumpled on the floor when Harry swept them aside without ceremony.

His eyes were very dark, his face red with a flush that faded where his chest hair began. This Jonathan noticed from up close whilst he knelt between his legs, Harry’s back propped up by the pillows and the headboard, Jonathan’s hands a little tense on his chest.

It had been A While for him, on both accounts.

Time to relax things a little.

“When you said ‘everything’,” said Jonathan with a grin, “did that happen to include the French way?”

“What do you mean, the French w— _ooh Jesus Christ on a bloody bicycle!_ ”

This picturesque interjection was due to the fact that, after kissing his way down the trail of hair from Harry’s chest to his navel, Jonathan hadn’t stopped there, but in fact had gone lower. And dear God, even though being on the receiving end was unrivalled pleasure, giving this sort of intimate kiss was its own kind of satisfying. Seeing Harry like this, mouth open in ecstasy, surprise quickly replaced by flustered interest, splayed open and squirming with one leg outstretched and the other bent at the knee, was worth the crick in the back Jonathan was bound to have for the next few hours.

Harry did taste of the sea all over, mingled with something musky and intimate, unique to every man and only found in this particular spot. It was kind of perfect, really.

Jonathan was starting to lose himself in the task at hand when he felt Harry’s hand in his hair, trembling a little.

“Stop,” he said weakly, “or I’m going to finish too early.”

Jonathan gave his prick one last kiss on the tip and shuffled forwards until his face was level with Harry’s.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“ _Enjoy_ …? Good God, man, that was incredible.” His voice was still a little high-pitched, his breath short when he drew Jonathan’s head closer for a kiss. Then licked his lips once, looking pensive.

“So?” Jonathan asked, propping up his chin on his chest. “What do you think?”

“I think… it’s interesting. Might be something to look into later. But for now,” he added in a lower voice, “I’m thinking it’s a good thing there’s a jar of petroleum jelly in my bag.”

Jonathan grinned.

“Confident we’d end up needing it, were you?”

“Hopeful. Is that so bad?”

“Not at all. I brought a jar, too.”

Harry’s deep chuckle resonated through Jonathan, a low vibration that made his heart catch as though Harry had kissed him somewhere intimate, like the hollow of his hip.

Jonathan’s overnight bag was closer; he rummaged in it for a few seconds and placed the little jar on the bedside table along with a handful of handkerchiefs. Then he went back to lying on top of Harry, who gave him a long, intense kiss and hooked his legs around his waist.

And cried out in pain, stiffening all over.

“What’s the matter?” asked Jonathan, alarmed. “Are you all right?”

Harry nodded, his eyes screwed shut, a little pale. Under Jonathan’s stomach his erection had flagged.

“Yes – I mean, no, but yes – God I’m an idiot.” He breathed in and out a few times, a little shakily. “It’s that bloody leg. It just seizes up sometimes, and I’m afraid swimming in cold water didn’t it any favours. I thought it’d be fine, but…” His jaw clenched. From either pain or frustration, or a mix of both, Jonathan couldn’t tell. “It’s not.”

Jonathan pondered for a while whilst Harry’s breathing evened out.

“Well,” he said eventually, “that doesn’t mean we have to stop here if you want to, you know, continue. We’ll just have to find a position that doesn’t put any strain on that leg, won’t we? Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“Believe me, I haven’t,” said Harry. He felt a lot more relaxed and looked mostly recovered, but the skin around his eyes was still a little tight. “I know it appears otherwise right now, but I really do want this. Only I was looking forward to being – to you being inside me. Um. There really is no elegant way to say this, is there?”

“Probably not. It’s not the most elegant activity, anyway.”

“Right.” Harry’s hands, which he had let fall on the mattress, crept up to Jonathan’s sides and stopped just at the rise of his buttocks. “How about… how about we switch and do it like this?”

“Splendid.” Jonathan squirmed up until their hips were flush against each other’s and started moving, slowly, just to build back up the heat that had fled. “Like I said earlier,” he breathed between two kisses, “I like a bit of improvisation.”

“Still”, murmured Harry, who was starting to melt again – always a good sign, “I’m sorry. You’d think that after fifteen years I would know how to manage the damn thing. And also not get tongue-tied like an idiot when discussing who is to be buggered and who’s doing the buggering.”

To be fair, this specific part of the proceedings always had the potential to be awkward. Some fellows were dead set against being on the receiving end, whereas others only swore by it. Jonathan, liking both in the right circumstances and being rather amenable, usually adapted to the situation.

“It’s all right,” he said, because Harry still wasn’t smiling as he had been before the interruption. “This is just a bit of fun, not negotiating the Peace of Versailles. Although maybe _that_ would have gone a lot better if we could have just locked all those fine gentlemen in a room and told them to shag it out.”

Harry gave a strangled laugh.

“God, the mental picture. I’ll have nightmares for weeks, thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome,” said Jonathan cheekily, pleased to see Harry’s smile had come back in full force.

On reflection, he had to admit that this – stuffy old men bickering, the War, everything that went with it – was the last thing he wanted to think about. Better concentrate on Harry, the deep flush spreading down his throat, the groan that left him as his hips twitched under Jonathan’s.

Well. From the feel of things, the situation downstairs had evolved into a much more promising state of affairs. Upstairs, too. Jonathan’s mind was getting a little fuzzy at the edges with need.

He felt around for the jar of petroleum jelly and unscrewed the lid.

“Do you want to do the honours, or shall I?” he asked in one rushed breath.

Harry took the jar and gave him a kiss.

“C’mere.”

The first touch of jelly against sensitive skin had Jonathan shiver a little, as always. Harry took his time, stroking, massaging, but as he started to ease in one finger Jonathan still shuddered and gasped, “Gently now. I haven’t done this in… some time.”

“Same here,” whispered Harry. “But don’t worry. There’s no rush.”

Harry turned out to be quite good with his fingers – perhaps not very technically skilled, but patient and attentive. Soon enough the familiar warmth started to suffuse Jonathan from his chest to the tips of his toes, unclenching tense muscles and uncoiling the last bit of anxiety in his stomach, until his whole mind was calling _nownownowpleasenow_.

And then he was sinking on Harry, Harry’s large hands on his hips, gentle and steady like two warm anchors. The sensations – pain? pleasure? pain? – were so overwhelming Jonathan didn’t realise right away that he had squeezed his eyes shut. He froze where he was, trembling a little whilst the muscles of his thighs quivered, barely daring to breathe.

It really _had_ been a while. About three years, more or less.

This wasn’t something Jonathan usually did with just anybody; the act required an amount of trust that could be a long time coming, if it did at all, and the certainty that he and his partner could take their time, especially when a certain amount of preparation was needed. He had rushed things in this matter exactly twice in his life, and bitterly regretted it both times afterwards. The second time had the dubious honour of being his worst experience, or just about; it had been a hasty, mostly impersonal business, conducted out of desperation in the meagre shelter of a dugout, when it looked like dawn would bring certain death. It hadn’t, and Jonathan spent a miserable couple of days trying to hide his discomfort – or, at least, conceal this specific discomfort in the midst of all the other things that conspired to make a soldier’s life a living hell. At least being wrapped around someone – arms clutching shoulders, legs tight around hips, two bodies made into one – had made him feel like a human being again for a few minutes.

But here – in this room, with this man – it was safe to let go. He could afford abandon. He could even afford tenderness. _And_ he could afford to set his own rhythm.

By the time Jonathan was fully seated astride Harry’s hips, breathing hard and shaking, his erection had wilted. God, this position was hell on the thighs, both as the skinny nineteen-year-old he had been the first time and the man almost twice that age he was now.

Harry caressed him gently, his hips, his sides, his chest, patient despite the tangible effort he made to not move at all.

“All right?” he murmured. Jonathan opened his eyes and nodded slowly.

“As I said, it’s been a while.”

“Take your time. I could stay like this all day.”

This time it was Jonathan’s turn to give a strangled chuckle.

“Give me a minute and I may agree.”

It did take another full minute before he was ready to move. But when he did… oh, good Lord in Heaven.

One long slide up then down had them both gasp. Harry joined him for the next move, raising his hips a little to meet him halfway, and Jonathan abruptly remembered why this dance was one of his dearest favourites.

They moved languorously, savouring each sensation, from the light touch of Harry’s thumb as he wrapped his hands around Jonathan’s to the extraordinary feeling of fullness, all-encompassing. This was the ultimate embrace, the most visceral way to give a part of himself to someone and having that someone offer himself to him, as well. Other gestures, other acts could be more intimate, provided you shared more than fondness and a physical interest for the other person; but this specific thing – because it was so heavily punished by the law, because it was so transgressive, because of the fire it lit up inside Jonathan every time it was done _really_ well, who knew – this was special.

Harry tilted his hips a little; Jonathan’s back arched and he cried out.

“Good God _yes_ , oh yes _right there_ —”

Well then. Good thing they hadn’t done this late last night. What was it about that particular spot that made him so bloody _loud_?

Harry chuckled, his eyes bright, sweat shining on his skin. Under Jonathan’s palms his chest hairs were standing on end, his nipples raised and hard.

“Sorry about that little outburst,” said Jonathan when the acute pleasure had subsided enough for him to speak, “I tend to – _aah oh God_ – I get vocal sometimes.”

“Don’t worry about it. It just means I’m doing it right, doesn’t it? Besides, it’s flattering, in a way.”

“Oh. W—well in that case, I prefer to warn you. It gets even worse in some other positions.”

“I’m looking forward to finding out,” said Harry with a wide smile, just before another well-aimed thrust sent Jonathan’s mind reeling.

“How,” he gasped when he came down a little, “how’s your leg?”

Harry moved again, his fingers clutching Jonathan’s hips so tight they were bound to leave marks.

“It’s fine,” he whispered, his voice scratchy with the effort of holding off the inevitable explosion. “I’m fine. Better than fine. You?”

“Like you n—need to ask.”

They exchanged a breathless smile.

And God, as intense as the pleasure they gave each other was, this kind of connection might be the real reason that drew Jonathan to the act, no matter how unspeakable it was deemed by law and propriety alike.

His position meant he couldn’t hold Harry close to him, tuck his head into his neck, taste the sweat in the hollow of his throat; the frustration was negligible, but still there. He leant forwards a little, just enough that he could grip Harry’s shoulders, and picked up the pace.

No more holding back. This part of the dance was forceful, urgent, frantic. Harry’s moans felt punched out of him; Jonathan had abandoned all pretence of keeping quiet. Every other movement he and Harry made drew a shout from him, a mix of profanities and wordless cries as pleasure ripped through him, so sharp it was almost painful.

Underneath him, inside him, Harry’s entire body felt so hot he seemed on the brink of bursting into flames. Unless Jonathan himself would catch fire first, so close was he to the edge, so badly in need of one small nudge to fall apart –

Harry closed one of his hands around his prick. His hand, his arm, his whole body was shivering, goosebumps moving across his skin like ripples on a lake.

“Come on,” he said softly, tension in every muscle, barely-open eyes locked onto Jonathan’s. “Come on.”

He gave one gentle tug, then another. At the third Jonathan came back to his senses just enough to warn him he _was_ , indeed, very close. He barely noticed Harry reach for a handkerchief on the bedside table; the last great surge caught him, lifted him up, and he was gone, gone, letting go with one last howl, Harry’s hands tight around him.

The spasms of his climax were the final push Harry needed. The force of his release lifted his hips off the mattress in one last stuttering thrust. Jonathan felt the heat of it inside him in short bursts before Harry fell back onto the bed with a gasping groan and his body seemed to go limp and soft under Jonathan’s. That didn’t stop him from catching Jonathan as he folded up and collapsed on his chest, wrung out, muscles liquid, bliss and exhaustion running through his veins instead of blood.

It took some time before they could raise their heads, or even move at all beyond drawing air in and out of their lungs. Jonathan, for whom that last flash of blinding pleasure had wiped everything clean off his mind, gradually let himself register things again, like Harry’s warm breath in his hair, the sweat slicking both their stomachs, the solid girth of Harry still filling him, shrinking slowly. There was tenderness in Harry’s hands as he caressed Jonathan’s back, in his fingers bumping lightly along the bones of his spine; Jonathan ran his hand on Harry’s shoulder gently, idly noting a mole here, an imperfection there, wanting to kiss every one but too worn out to move. He was happy, sated and exhausted, sapped of every last ounce of energy, and basking in the feeling.

It had _really_ been ages.

When the sensation at the base of his spine was a little too obvious to be ignored, Jonathan shifted and squirmed a little. Harry caught on and pulled out of him – probably the less pleasant aspect of this stage. The sudden emptiness made overwrought muscles contract and never failed to make Jonathan’s throat close for a second, no matter how good he’d been feeling. With the right partner and the right circumstances, though, this odd melancholic mood passed quickly enough. Amazing what a bit of post-coital cuddling could do even to your garden-variety cynic.

Thankfully, the two of them both seemed to need that moment of rest, physical and otherwise. They remained exactly where they had been when they fell, Jonathan curled up on Harry’s chest, one of Harry’s arms around him and the fingers of the other loosely tangled in his hair.

“I could stay like _this_ all day,” he murmured.

There was a puff of air against his head that could be a chuckle or sigh.

“Same here,” whispered Harry. “And not just because I’m not looking forward to standing and walking again. Possibly ever.”

“How bad is it? Your leg?”

“Eh, I’ll probably have to use my cane for the next few days. That’ll teach me not to stay in cold water too long. Hopefully.”

Jonathan grinned with his eyes closed.

“I’ll drag you out earlier next time.” A pause. “You have a cane?”

“I do. Can’t stand the thing, so I only use it when things get so bad I can’t put my foot on the ground.” The press of Harry’s lips in his hair, a smile, a warm kiss. “‘Next time’?”

“If you’d like to,” said Jonathan, too tired and happy to be nervous or self-conscious. Harry’s arms tightened ever so slightly around him.

“I’d love to.”

This, thought Jonathan as he felt what had to be a truly goofy smile make its way across his face, really had to be the best date in the history of dates.

Even if the next was just a pint at the White Hart and a stroll on the West Pier, he was looking forward to more.

* * *

Reality returned, as it usually did, with a glance at one of their discarded watches and the realisation that time hadn’t stopped just for them. Harry graciously offered Jonathan the use of the small bathroom first, which Jonathan was grateful for.

A hot bath, albeit short, did wonders to ease the small aches Jonathan had accumulated both during their morning swim and their later exertions. By the time he walked out of the bathroom, energetically drying his hair, the throbbing in the lower parts of his anatomy had subsided to a dull ache, barely a discomfort at all, an almost pleasant reminder of much more pleasant activities. He found Harry on the bed, smoking his pipe, fingers knotted behind his head. His good leg was bent at the knee, his right leg outstretched in front of him, and he wasn’t wearing a stitch.

The fact that Jonathan was now familiar with even the smallest details of him – the knobbly elbows, the brown nipples, the pattern of hair on his chest – did nothing to keep him from staring a little. And why should he not, after all? They weren’t in public. He could afford to be appreciative.

Harry, likewise, looked him up and down before meeting his gaze. His eyes twinkled.

“Liking what you see, Mr George?”

“You can’t blame a fellow for looking,” Jonathan retorted as he searched his bag for clean clothes. “Especially since that would be the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming. I know _I_ like what I’m seeing.”

Jonathan snorted.

“By the way,” asked Harry a little later, as Jonathan sat on the bed to put on his pants and socks, “is ‘Jonathan’ your real name? Or is it a pseudonym, like ‘George’?”

“No, it’s my real name. What about you?” Jonathan feigned horror. “Don’t tell me I’ve been calling you a false name in the throes of passion. That wouldn’t be sporting, old chap.”

Harry laughed. “If you want to be nitpicky about it, my real name’s ‘Harold’. But I like ‘Harry’ better. Especially in the throes of passion,” he added with a fond smile.

Jonathan grinned and kissed his raised knee. The sweat had dried, but Harry’s skin still tasted of salt, some of it perhaps just a touch of seawater.

“You know,” he said whilst he tried to shake the creases out of his clean shirt, “I’d need more than ‘Harold’ if we’re having that second date. That way, if something comes up and I can’t make it, I could send a telegram.”

Harry took his pipe out of his mouth. His stare was of a very different quality compared to what it had been when Jonathan had got out of the bathroom.

“Would it be wise, though? It would mean having each other’s full names and addresses. If one of us is investigated at some point, it could put us both in danger.”

“Friends can write each other,” Jonathan pointed out, an argument prompted by one side of the heated debate he’d been having with himself in the bath. “As long as we’re careful about what we write, nobody has anything to say about it.”

Harry sat up, leaning an arm on his knee and bringing his face close to Jonathan’s.

“Is that what we are, then?” he asked tentatively. “Friends?”

Jonathan, uncharacteristically, thought before he answered. He looked at Harry, the slope of his shoulders, the strands of grey hair at his temples, the expressive eyes that shone brighter when he smiled. Then he looked inwards, at what the last twenty-four hours had meant to him as well as inside his own head.

There was fondness there, he knew, and affection, on top of the desire that had flickered into life the first time they had spoken to each other. Something companionable and sunny, uncomplicated, but also devoid of both the sharp joy and the cold fear that had risen together the first time Jonathan had realised he was in love. His mind then had been full of _oh bollocks, I want to run my hand through his hair and make love with him and also have a pint together_ _and get drunk and laugh and then fall asleep in each other’s arms every night till I die_ , with a healthy helping of _what if we get caught, what if we let something slip, what if we’re so obvious people can read it on our faces_ …

None of that here – a big relief, a small disappointment. Just a person he wanted to spend time with, listen to, laugh with, and yes, also kiss and caress all over. This sort of arrangement wasn’t unheard of; but it was only satisfying if both parties wanted the same thing.

Jonathan pursed his lips in thought, then laid a hand on Harry’s arm.

“I hope so,” he said with rare honesty, “if that’s all right with you.”

Harry’s face was unreadable for a blink or two, then –

“Harry Barnes,” he said with a smile, extending a hand to Jonathan. “Came down from Croydon by way of Nottinghamshire. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Jonathan grinned and shook his hand. “Jonathan Carnahan, London. Likewise.”

“Londoner, eh?” This was said with a mock snort, easy to see through. No-one liked Londoners. Not even – especially not – fellow Londoners, for that matter. But Harry’s quip made it clear he was willing to make an exception.

“Londoner,” he confirmed, “by way of Surrey and Egypt.”

Harry threw him an intrigued look.

“Egypt?”

“Long story,” said Jonathan, feeling the subject of his ancestry might be better kept for another time. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Sure, don’t you?”

This time Harry sounded genuinely surprised not everyone carried with them a pencil and a notebook. He got up from the bed – right leg very stiff, but otherwise looking so at ease with himself it was almost easy to not notice he was still completely nude – and searched the inside pockets of his jacket for a few seconds. Then he sank back down on the bed to scribble something on a page, before tearing it and handing everything – torn page, notebook and pencil – to Jonathan.

“Here’s my address,” he said. “You can write down yours. I’m on holiday until September, so let’s say – how about next Wednesday?”

“I’d like that,” said Jonathan with a smile. “Same time, same place? I think they’re still showing _A Study in Scarlet_ at the Arcadia. I know it’s a bit of a step-down from the aquarium, but—”

Harry kissed him, long and deep, one hand slipping around Jonathan’s bare waist. He didn’t lean back when they broke apart and his lips stayed quite close to Jonathan’s.

“Eleven on the West Pier, then. Sounds perfect.”

“Ditto,” said Jonathan, just a tad breathless. “Do you think you might want to drop a bag at the Leeward Inn for the day?”

“I may not be able to,” said Harry, genuine regret in his voice. “Can’t afford a hotel every time – which reminds me, we’re definitely splitting expenses for the room. But the time after next? Absolutely. If that’s all right with you.”

Jonathan’s smile became a grin.

“It’s a date, then. Or two, as it were.”

“More than that, hopefully,” Harry said, and let out a muffled laugh when Jonathan kissed him.

In the end, after Harry had limped over to the bathroom for his own hot bath, Jonathan finished putting his clothes on, half his mind already on the next Wednesday.

They would go to the cinema, have roasted peanuts or cotton candy, and generally enjoy the city; they might not find a place that would be private enough for a kiss, but they would share a pint, or a ‘drop of Nelson’s blood’, and have a pleasant time together. For some of the dates that would come after that, they could retreat to the Leeward Inn and the shelter of Doris’ and Oscar’s friendly protection.

And in the unlikely event that they ran out of things to do in Brighton, well, there was always a stroll on the West Pier.

  
  


THE END

(kinda)

* * *

1Douglas Jerrold, 19th century English writer and journalist. Wrote a lot for _Punch_.

**Author's Note:**

> Any establishment cited here except the Arcadia Cinema (which closed in the 1950s) is fictional. The Leeward Inn, unfortunately, has no basis in reality. It would have been nice, though.
> 
> “The French way” was an actual period-appropriate appellation for fellatio. Because even in (male, at least) queer spaces, mouth + intimate parts didn’t really compute in Great Britain – it was seen as A Foreign (like French or American) And Kinky Thing. They did have words for it, though, like “gamahuche” (give a cunnilingus), and a “cocksucker” both meant someone who performed oral sex on a man and someone who did on a woman. The more you know :P
> 
> I might have a sequel/conclusion to this in the works. I’ll be sure to post it if anyone’s interested. In the meantime, if you liked this very, very self-indulgent story, _please_ leave a comment! If only so I can thank you and profess my undying love to you 💜


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